Through a Glass Dimly
by ninamonkey
Summary: McCoy loses his ability to handle life aboard the Enterprise. Dark genfic.
1. Prologue

_**Classified - Command Code Alpha-AA2**  
Starbase 5  
Alemeda Medical Station - OB6  
Patient #247_

_Audio stream: 7.3.4b  
Video: None listed_

_Audio Transcript 1, Mark :105  
Interpretive excerpt.  
_

"The beauty is unparalleled in my opinion, but you have to visit in late April. That's when the magnolias bloom and...man. You can't get that fragrance anywhere else. The scent just rolls right off the water in some places and knocks you off your feet. Well, sure, you can try getting a good whiff from a replicated flower, but it's not the--"

"Stop. Just...Don't."

"What's wrong?"

"You've been babbling on for two hours, non-stop. Can't you get it through your head? I don't want to talk. I don't know why they bother with this horseshit."

"Wondered when you'd say hello."

"I'd say anything to get you to shut the hell up."

***END TRANS***

* * *

_**Classified - Command Code Alpha-AA2**  
Starbase 5  
Alemeda Medical Station - OB6  
Patient #247_

_Audio stream: 3.14.2b  
Video: None listed_

_Audio Transcript 3, Mark :01  
Interpretive.  
Complete transcript._

"Why do you think it didn't succeed?"

"Because I'm a dumb ass."

"Doubtful."

"Whatever. Think what you want."

"Are you going to try it again?"  
_  
(Indecipherable) _

"I'd really like to know if you're thinking about trying again."

"Why? Doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

"I'm tired and I really don't feel like playing cat and mouse today."  
_  
(Interpretive: Subject rises; doctor escorts subject from observation room 6)_

***END TRANS***

* * *

_**Classified - Command Code Alpha-AA2**  
Starbase 5  
Alemeda Medical Station - OB6  
Patient #247_

_Audio stream: 5.2.4a  
Video: None listed  
Audio Transcript 4, Mark :23_

_Interpretive excerpt._

"It's funny, y'know."

"Funny? What do you mean?"

"Well, not a, 'ha-ha, it's a hilarious guffaw' funny or a 'can't wait to see that again' funny. It's _Pagliacci_. It's painfully ironic. It's the gag that falls flat and the gag with just enough bite that if you're still laughing when the house lights come up, you'll burn in hell."

"That bad, huh?"

"...Yeah."

"We can revisit that, later, if you like."

"What if I don't like?"

"Totally up to you."

"I've got an idea, let's continue with the jokes. Feel like a good joke?"

"Only if it's funny."

"Oh, this is hilarious. A real kick in the craw. Y'see, my Captain has a reputation for bein' a screw up. His screw-ups are legendary, like three-vehicle pile-ups exploding in your face. In fact, you can't help but watch when he's headed for a fall because you absolutely assume he's gonna face-plant right into God's green earth. Me? They've always said I'm a lightning rod. Grounded. Grounded, and volatile. I know right from wrong. I do my job with excellence, though I'll speak my mind a time or two and call a flying fig a flying fig."

"So...where's the joke, again? It doesn't seem very funny."

"God. You're useless. _I'm_ the joke, okay? I'm the pause before the punchline."

"Still not funny."

"No? Then how 'bout irony. Irony is, the Captain's a cat. Always lands on his feet, always will. You get him riled enough and he'll claw, hiss, and spit and give as good as he gets. But I'm a hound dog."

"You lost me."

"You know. Roll over. Play dead 'til it's over. Hope to God no one sees the truth. Probably why when my shit hit the fan the joke ended, and no one was laughing..."

"Let's take a break."

"Nah, just...never mind. Hell, I've never landed on my feet."

***END TRANS***


	2. Bottle lobotomy

**AN:** New story, hopefully one for the long haul and one that I'll complete. Many, many shout-outs and cookies to my beta, Empath89 who is my encourager, and my rock. And, as always...Reviews are always welcome. :)

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He wished he could whistle.

When Jim Kirk was young and still unsure of life or his stepfather-to-be, his mother would tell him stories about her strange quirk of whistling in the dark when she felt afraid or uncertain. "Any tune will do, Jimmy," she told him. "If you're not sure, make one up." And he would - and it worked, until Frank _took issue_ with his whistling one day and employed unnecessary tactics to get him to stop. Jim never whistled like that again, but he always thought about it and whenever life threw him a curve he'd hear his mother's tune in his head and he'd always feel comforted or confident.

He was neither comforted nor confident now and even the idea of whistling sent him nervously adjusting his uniform and switching his feet. He wished for confidence he didn't feel and wished for strength he didn't have and the people he normally took comfort from weren't here...and that was that. He shook his head; he didn't need to be here. He had no idea what he was going to do and he doubted he'd do any good. But his instincts hadn't failed him yet. He'd jump and see what happened, like always.

The hospital wing was claustrophobic, scaldingly bright, eerily devoid of people, and bitterly cold. Kirk stopped short of an involuntary nose wrinkle; the smell seemed too antiseptic, as if hiding the smell of something rancid or foul. _Like vomit_, his mind retorted, and as his stomach rolled and lurched he realized that _was _their intent. The recycled air was pulling double duty but it couldn't quite mask the sickening smell. _Best not to think about it_, Jim thought, as he quickly traced the patterned arrows on the tight blue, Berber carpeting. The arrows curved 'round and joined the main desk, where a bored man (nurse?) in a white uniform held court before a secure, etched double door made from glass. Kirk watched cautiously as a medical officer breezed past, and the doors swung wide, embracing her entry. Jim made a face. He knew those doors locked from the other side, but only one desk person stood between him and the rest of the hospital...and those were damn good odds.

Jim took a small breath and stood straighter, calling on the skills that forced him wear the Captain's mantle when he didn't feel like it. He thought he kept down his nervous anxiety fairly well, actually, since he hated hospitals, hated orderlies, hated nurses, and hated doctors. The warped irony that his friend happened to be one didn't escape him, but he never viewed Bones as a regular doctor. Maybe because he'd seen him human one too many times.

The desk person folded his arms and smiled pleasantly as he approached. _That's a good sign,_ Kirk thought.

"May I help you...Captain?" He barely gave Jim's command stripes a cursory glance.

"I hope you can," Jim said as pleasantly as he could. "I'm looking for a patient who was admitted eight days ago. Lieutenant Commander McCoy. Leonard H."

"Ah," the man - _Newberg_ according to his name tag and _lieutenant_ according to his command stripes - pursed his lips. His face was slightly less cheerful, but full of determination as he faced his computer. His monitor, opaque and fully shielded so no one (including Jim) could sneak a peek at so-called classified information, chirped happily as data filled the screen, but Kirk frowned since he couldn't see it. _I bet I could get in there_, he thought darkly, and part of him relished the challenge. He'd done more than a few illegal things in his youth, some of which included illegal encrypting and decrypting of software.

"Mm," Lieutenant Newberg said after a moment, and Jim's eyes narrowed as he recognized the tone; he wasn't going to like the news. "I'm sorry, sir, he's not accepting visitors at the moment."

Jim's words came out more clipped than he liked. "When _will _he be expecting visitors?"

"Oh, not for another few weeks, at least."

"That's absolutely unacceptable. I need to see him now."

The eyes of the lieutenant-slash-desk jockey lost their sparkle and turned hard, despite the smile plastered on his face. "I'm sorry. Sir. It's just not possible."

"Then what _is_ possible?" A small curl started at Jim's lips. His expression could've become a smirk or a snarl, but even Jim wasn't sure if he had the skill for a smile at this point. He was tired, testy, and more than spoiling for a fight. The scrappy street kid grew up in the past couple of assignments, but he still hovered beneath the surface. "I'm his Captain," Kirk said, pulling the only card that might work. "I have a right to be informed."

"Informed, yes." Newberg sighed as if a little bored and Jim found his right fist slowly, and involuntarily, tightening. "And reports will be sent to you periodically. But at this point in his treatment his primary care physician left strict orders that he's not to communicate with anyone, except alpha level hospital personnel. I suggest—"

A soft-toned alarm interrupted their conversation. Jim wanted to ignore it even if Lt. Newberg couldn't, but a medical team made it impossible. The team rushed down the carpet, hurriedly pulling a cart from behind, and burst through the glass doors while shouting over their shoulder at Newberg. "Lieutenant, page Drs. Adams and Philips, and meet us in 158. He'll wise up if you're there. He listens to you."

"Good God," Newberg muttered. "No rest for the wicked, eh?" He tapped a few keystrokes, locked his monitor, and followed the cart without saying another word to Jim. The doors quietly and efficiently shut him out, and Jim was left staring at a blank desk.

And a golden opportunity.

"No rest for the wicked indeed," he muttered. He quickly looked around, but didn't really care if anyone caught him jumping behind the desk and feeling around for the door's manual override.

"Bingo," he muttered when a loud _klik-__**klak**_ ended his search. Then Jim Kirk, locksmithing genius, whistled softly and entered through pearly glass gates.


	3. AMS SB5, Patient 247, AudioTrans 7

**A/N:** More shout-outs to my beta, Empath89, and many, many thanks to Sareh, ChristinaTM, and kendrat for R&R. Warning label for language in this chapter. And as always, reviews are like candy at Christmas.

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**_Classified, Command Code Alpha-AA2_**

_Starbase 5_

_Alemeda Medical Station - OB6_

_Patient #247_

_Audio stream: 3.2.9b-2_

_Video: None listed_

_Audio Transcript 7, Mark :28_

_Interpretive excerpt._

* * *

"Hmm...Acamprosate and nalmefene...? Yeah. I think those were the names they used in the twenty-first century."

"Hahah. Excellent. You've got an amazing memory. To me, remembering all those early drug names evokes bad memories of long, torrid nights curled up beside the PDR."

"Yeah...Heh. I guess. From what I remember, those drugs or some form of 'em, were around for a while, until we started usin' trimethylxenotaurindine. I heard tritauridine recently got the OTC go-ahead, which doesn't make a hell of a lot of sense to me."

"It did. You can purchase it under the brand name, _Renew-Al_."

"You are fucking kidding me."

"No, seriously. I saw it in the pharmacy the other day and read the name off the box."

"Did you, now. Or did Dr. Dehner use the brand name in her report?"

"Well, both."

"Mm-hmm."

"Are you really that surprised that I've been in contact with your ship psychiatrist?"

"...no. No, not at all. Why should I be surprised?"

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Did it work for you?"

"Yes. Do you want me to do a fucking back flip, now? Maybe do a little dog and pony show for ya?"

"You sound angry."

"Bonus round. Round of applause for the fucking genius. You sure you graduated from medical school? Sorry. I'm...skip it."

"Why did it stop working?"

"Dammit, it works just fine. It _works_, as long as you take it consistently and as long as you attend regular therapy sessions. And as long as you're honest with yourself and everyone around you."

"Do you think you're a dishonest person?"

"You know what else is funny? They never did find an instant cure that deals with long-term comfort levels. And ain't that term a crock of shit: _Comfort levels_. Hell, call them what they are. We're weak, we need it, we crave it. They're _cravings_, goddammit, not some nouveau PC term like 'comfort levels.' If we don't have it or if we don't do something about it, we die. End of story."

"You didn't answer my question. Why?"

"You told me I didn't have to answer anything I didn't want to."

"Fair enough...could I ask something else?"

"Shoot."

"When was the first time you began the tritauridine regimen? Did it help any?"

"Nearly died the first time I took it."

"Seriously?"

"Well...metaphorically. I was nowhere near straight when I came off that shuttle and 'Fleet knew it. The first few days were hell…I looked and acted like someone chewed me up, spit me out, and rode me wet. But wonder of wonders, they accepted me anyway. And I got three lovely vacation days in the sickbay for my trouble."

"Starfleet knew of your condition?"

"How the hell could I keep that a fucking secret? Come _on_. They put it in a contract as terms of my continued employment and unequivocally said these were the conditions I had to meet to stay in Starfleet. It's not like I had a choice, right? Prison, or Starfleet. Take your pick."

"Prison? Hardly."

"Yeah, okay. Whatever you say...Y'know, fuck this. I'm thirsty."

"Could you tell me more about what Starfleet knew, and why they didn't maintain stricter standards when it came to your case? I apologize for my lack of understanding but from my experiences, Starfleet medical upholds strict psychological practices and performs regular psychological evaluations for every cadet and crewmember. Why was your case special?"

"Are we really going there...?"

"I'd like to know, if you want to tell me."

"God, you're an annoying prick. Look, at the time only a few people knew but I'm sure if more people had uncovered the truth, I would've been out on my ass. Let me spell it out for you: Since tritauridine studies indicate a considerably minimal relapse rate, they decided to take the chance. I had to agree to regular counseling and to take the medication as prescribed but if I did that, the important brass were willing to let me continue in the program. So I took the damn drug under duress. Like I said, I didn't have anywhere else to go."

"But why you, in particular? What made you special?"

"Special? _Special_...? I started as a damn _cadet_. I started from the goddamn ground _up_. Tell me how that's so fucking special."

"It sounds like that upset you."

"It was humiliating. Don't get me wrong, I was glad to have a regular routine again and glad to be free from Earthside's insanity. Guess it was a win-win for Starfleet, too, because my articles and talents were, and I quote, 'near legendary.' They _knew _I was the best catch they were gonna get for years. And if I was a little rough around the gills, so be it - they figured they'd train the rest out of me. Most Earth experts either concentrate in research or stay in the private sector. Very rarely do people do both – and those who do aren't really good at it. Add off-world travel with no set destination or place, coupled with constant disease and destruction, and you've got a handful willing to try. No one has the time to keep up with all of the advances on Earth, let alone off-world. Let _alone _a flying death trap in space."

"But you did it."

"Yeah, but I didn't have a choice."

"Why don't we talk about how you feel on tritauridine. Then maybe we can discuss why it didn't work for you."

"Well…it does its dirty work. But ultimately, it feels like I'm…missing something."

"How so?"

"You know this part – or if not, you damn well should. Did you know tritauridine is so good, it _lets_ you drink? Even lets you get plastered? Supposedly it manipulates the opiate receptors so well that you don't feel the need to go beyond a certain point. Of course abstinence is optimal, but who's optimal? Cocksucking pharmas. If that ain't the most stupid, numbnut shit in history, I don't know what is."

"Tritauridine gives you the opportunity to be normal."

"Whatever 'normal' means. It's not about freedom. It's a ticking time bomb, that's what it is."

"Is that why you stopped taking it?"

"No, I _stopped_ because I was numb on it. I couldn't think creatively anymore. I could do my job, but screw research - screw investigating something new and getting a buzz off the challenge, because I can't think past the beta blockers."

"Your file says you have genius tendencies."

"Screw that, too. Geniuses encounter major personal problems in life if they're not stimulated, and/or grounded. So if I'm a genius, I apparently need to be grounded 'cause stimulation, I have in abundance. There's a lot of stimulation on a starship, y'know. Too many goddamn dying kids, not enough time for research...."

"Do you think your frustrations began when you had to take over as CMO of the Enterprise?"

"No. I don't know. Maybe."

"Is that when you stopped taking the medication, after the _Narada_'s attack?"

"Yes--hell, I don't _know_. It just...I just got worse."

"After you received the summons."

"Yeah."

"About your father."

"…yes."

***END TRANS***


	4. Physician, Heal Thyself

**AN:** _Short interlude stating the whys and wherefores. Next chapter will be much longer - promise - but after that, the posting speed will slow down significantly (I cheated: The first five chapters are complete and beta'd). Speaking of betas, shout out to the lovely Empath89 for once again being my encourager, and for everyone who put this little number on their alerts and favorites list. Thanks for reading and/or reviewing!  
_

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Three months into the maiden five-year voyage of the _USS Enterprise_, Captain James T. Kirk saw the metaphorical shroud obscuring the features of his Chief Medical Officer. Always somewhat of a perpetual frowner, Leonard H. "Bones" McCoy began sporting a haggard pallor and detached expression. The Enterprise's current CMO never had been a nervous man per se (unless taking a shuttle or beaming down planet-side counted), but within those first few months Jim detected the change. He didn't have time to thoroughly investigate, however, and had to dismiss it as voyage jitters until a better time arose. They were all distracted to some degree and the truth, that they might not see friends or family for months or years, had hit much of the young crew in unfortunate ways.

But McCoy's small disturbances continued creeping into their lives, creating cracks of doubt where once there were none: Dark mood swings. Thrown instruments. Very public dressing downs of nurses, patients, and fellow colleagues. Then there were odd disappearances in the middle of the day and occasional mornings and afternoons when he smelled strongly of various spirits. When Jim finally caught a break and spoke with him privately, McCoy apologized; agreed it was jitters.

Lied through his southern teeth.

Invariably the problems worsened but the majority ignored them, since McCoy was cantankerous, but well-loved by the crew. They played his problems off as something he'd "get over" and at the time they had no alternatives, what with the Klingons suddenly attacking, new, tentative treaties with an Andorian world, occasional patrols near the Neutral Zone, and the Tholians wreaking havoc in every department. Head Nurse Christine Chapel took up most of the morning slack until McCoy showed for work. She knew his routines. She could've been a doctor herself, if she hadn't decided on more of a research track. The evening doctor, an old buddy of McCoy's, did everything but falsify records...and even then, he left many things open to interpretation.

Kirk discovered later that M'Benga's reports concerning McCoy were abnormally vague and criminally spotty. McCoy was sinking but the crew were either too kind – or too busy – to acknowledge the tap-dancing elephant in the room. No one consulted Dr. Elizabeth Dehner, the head of the _Enterprise_'s psychiatry team, but she did have her suspicions and asked to see the Chief Medical Officer on several occasions.

He ignored or refused all her invitations.

When the truth hit them really, really fast, like a warp-eight brick, it happened at a time they didn't want it: Rocked by explosions and rocked by casualties. All hands were needed.

Doctor McCoy was incoherent. Drunk on duty.

Eventually Chris Chapel procured a hypo to minimize the effects of intoxication and to sober him enough so he could do his job, but too much time had passed.

An Ensign died.

Someone that probably didn't have to, if he'd been alert. Aware.

Sober.

The rest also happened at warp: the board review, the criminal charges, the medical malpractice suit.

Court martial still pending.

But as Jim had argued with the medical review board and Starfleet JAG office, they were all at fault for ignoring the problem...so if McCoy had to pay the price, so would the _Enterprise_ crew. Which bought them time enough for an impromptu shore leave and an impromptu orbit around a particular medical station. Where Kirk knew he had to pull the truth from his friend, before McCoy threw himself into that abyss of martyrdom for which he was known. Kirk had to intervene, even if he only had precious scant minutes to communicate. Because he knew, more than anyone else, that McCoy would never come back from this without help.


	5. An Anchor to the Drowning Man

**AN:** _Again, many thanks to my beta, Empath89, and as well as you, dear readers. This is the last of the beta'd work, so it might be a bit before I update. This is where the rubber starts meeting the road….**Warning:** Graphic language ahoy...  
_

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Leonard didn't turn when he heard the strange scraping noise at his door. He'd been used to hearing a few noises, some of which weren't entirely normal, some of which were (probably) imagined. He loosely arced his arm over his eyes, to try blocking the hallucinations in the partially dim room, but he could still see between the crook of his elbow. They wouldn't allow total darkness in his room, not now, and the conveniently placed recorders and monitoring equipment relayed everything from his heart rate to his mental health. Like a goddamn prison.

He sighed softly. Even with twenty-third century medical advances he didn't like the dry-out process any more than the next person. They'd given him more drugs than he liked but he refused some of the treatments because he was a doctor, dammit, and he knew more about those shitty drugs than anyone on the floor, including the doctors. But they threatened him; threatened to up the dosage on the anti-psychotics. So he assumed, if that sound were real, if that new ribbon of light streaming into his room was real, that someone had the hypo and he was about to get stuck and damn it all if he wouldn't fight the ass who tried it.

McCoy's lips pulled a dark smirk. The adage was right: doctors made the worst patients.

Scrape. _Click_.

_Fuckers_.

"You come one step closer with that hypo," he growled, "and I'll central line it through your fuckin' _cock_."

"I usually save that for the second date, Bones."

McCoy swallowed once, but didn't say anything. Instead he turned to the window so he wouldn't have to face him. "What're you doing here, Jim," he finally demanded, and his raspy murmur carried a hint of iron. Bones was spoiling for a knock down drag out but Jim came prepped for one.

"It's the middle of the afternoon. Why's it so dark in here?"

"Wish it was darker 'cause I'm tryin' to sleep." McCoy snorted quietly. "Dammit to hell, Jim. What rules did you break? Go back, take care of your bullshit, and run your starship."

"I can't. My CMO is ill and I don't like his replacement."

McCoy shot a look over his shoulder, the only acknowledgment he was willing to give. "How old are you, three? Go back to your goddamn ship before your superiors take it from you. Grow the fuck up." McCoy rolled back and faced the drawn curtains. "You'll get used to...whoever it is up there. You're the Captain, Kirk. So fucking act like one, for once."

Jim sighed softly and pulled a chair to the bed. A monitor beeped softly - apparently it didn't like recalibrating for someone new - and Jim straddled the chair, letting the minutes tick by while he watched Bones' back. Neither of them wanted to say anything else and frankly, Jim wasn't sure where to start. He needed to say something, maybe tell him it wasn't all bad. But he'd be lying and Bones knew him well enough to call him on his bullshit. Strange, really. If he had been back on the ship and if this had been any other crewmember, he would've recommended they visit Doctor McCoy in addition to Dr. Dehner.

"Jim." Bones broke the silence. His voice sounded stern, brittle, and raw, as if he'd been shouting. Or sobbing. "I'm serious. This isn't your fight and I'm not something you can fix. You have nothing to feel rotten about."

"I wish you'd been honest with me from the get go," he finally said, then winced because of how young he sounded. McCoy was right; he sounded like a pouty, petulant kid who had his favorite toy taken from him. He clenched his teeth. Maybe he should keep his mouth shut but he was as ticked as he was tired, and he didn't like how Bones' shields were stronger than plutonium. Running a hand across his jaw, Jim's eye roamed the room's monastic flavor and considered some new tactics. He frowned at the decor, noting small touches here and there that went far beyond a standard hospital room. Uncomfortably so.

It finally hit him. "They put you in isolation?"

McCoy chuckled darkly. "Yeah."

"Why?"

"Jim. Go. The fuck. Away."

"No," he murmured. "You need to fight this, Len. We're all fighting for you, and you can't just lay down and--"

"--and what, die?" A frightening, manic laugh bubbled from McCoy's lips. "How innocently, fucking naive. One of your _crewmen_ died, you stupid fuck!"

But Jim wasn't done, not by a long shot. He scooted the chair back and jabbed a finger at his friend's back. He teemed with anger now, some of it justified, some not, but all the hurt and anger built over months tumbled from his lips and he couldn't stop it. "No. Don't you pull the martyr shit on me, McCoy. You haven't cornered the market. We've all lost someone and made half-assed decisions that killed people. The only difference is, you thought you were too smart to fall into that trap, and you crawled into a bottle so you could feel all self-righteous about it. You knew, goddammit, but you had ample time to change! You're a fucking, self-centered son-of-a--"

"Captain Kirk!"

The door hissed open revealing a doctor, flanked by Newberg. Kirk bit back a seething retort. _Not now, dammit. _"In a minute," Kirk said, answering the doctor. But he was glaring at McCoy's back. "We're not done here."

"Yes, I'm afraid you are, Captain. I'd rather not call security, but I will if I need to."

"Uh, oh, Jimmy. Daddy's callin', best see to it."

Jim made a face and swore softly between his teeth. "McCoy--"

"_Please_, Captain. I'd hate to see you risk your commission, or your ship."

Something in the man's tone made Jim turn, and he caught the doctor whispering to the lieutenant. Newberg nodded and fiddled with the room's climate and controls. Instantly Kirk noticed a softening of some tones - quirky sounds he hadn't recognized before - and insistent alarms faded to their set, intermittent chimes. Bones hadn't moved during any of it. Newberg cautiously approached and gave Kirk a nervous smile; Jim flinched, seeing a hypo in Newberg's hand, and involuntarily stepped from the bed as a drug was administered to Bones. McCoy's breath, which had become strangely labored, gentled after a short, shuddering sigh.

"Wait," McCoy muttered, fighting consciousness. "Privacy...Cory, patient pri...vacy..."

Kirk finally released the breath he'd been holding when quiet snores rumbled from McCoy's side of the room. "He'll rest now," the doctor said. "But I think you and I need to talk, Captain."

"Yeah," Kirk said. His eyes blazed as he watched McCoy's shoulders rhythmically rise and fall. "We definitely do."

Jim casually placed his hands behind his back as he browsed the plaques and decorations in Dr. Corwin Lucas' office. His eyebrow crooked a little when a diploma stated Dr. Lucas completed the University of North Carolina's psychiatry program when Kirk was eighteen years old...which put him a little older than Bones, but not by much. With so many of Lucas' artifacts on the wall, Jim could tell the doctor was an open book, so perhaps Lucas would be willing to give him answers if he probed enough, in the right way.

Lucas offered Jim a seat but Jim declined; his nerves were taut to the point of breaking and sitting would only make him feel worse. At least if he paced in the guise of observing the wall decor, he wouldn't feel so cornered. "That your family?" Jim gestured to a holovid on Lucas's desk. The holo calmed Jim and his hard smirk softened somewhat: Lucas' dark skin complemented his companion's auburn hair, but it was the child's white hair and pale blue complexion that cemented the family scene in Kirk's mind.

"Yes," Lucas said softly. His smile was wistful as he handed the holo to Jim. "That's my wife, Genna. She comes from a family of, according to her, 'crazy Irish-Italians'. Personally? I think she's a great compliment to a 'Nawlins Acadian' mutt like me. And that's our foster daughter. Her family unit was on a diplomatic mission on Vulcan during the attack but Tletha was in San Francisco, attending a young science leaders conference that Genna hosted."

"I'm sorry," Jim said, returning the holo, and he genuinely meant the condolences. Not a day went by that he didn't think about what he could have done differently, or of the people they lost from the attack.

"I know. And it's no one's fault, Captain. Least of all yours." Jim made a face, wondering if Doctor Lucas wasn't a bit telepathic. "But we can't always expect that the universe will be fair."

"Which brings us back to the situation at hand."

Lucas didn't quite smile. "So it seems. All right, Captain. No more preamble."

He sat, and Jim suddenly felt tired. He finally took the chair across Lucas and rested his elbows on his thighs. "Agreed. No more preamble." His expression hardened. "What the hell's going on with him, Doctor? And don't hand me that bullshit about doctor/patient confidentiality because there's too much at stake here. I also want to know why your team put him in isolation when he's not a danger to anyone."

Lucas nodded but like most doctors did, he paused a few beats too long, frustrating the hell out of Jim. Jim waited, though, as the doctor gently tented his fingertips against his lips and measured his words. "Captain, we're both in a devil of a situation. I have to answer to Starfleet since I've been subpoenaed in a few of his cases. _Everyone_ wants to know what's happening with Doctor McCoy, not just you.

"Not to say there's anything conclusive," he said, catching Jim's subtle frown. "Or that I have anything positive or damning regarding him. But I have to finish my reports, and I have to be both thorough and impartial."

"I know," Jim muttered quietly. "And I'll worry about the legal shit later on. But right now I want to know if he's okay."

Lucas eyed him critically. "Are you asking as his Captain, or as his friend?"

Jim snorted and rubbed the back of his neck. "It's kind of one and the same. But I'm his friend first, his Captain second. I'd rather separate the two, especially now."

"Thank you," Lucas said, and Jim wasn't sure what to make of the doctor's small smile. "I think the only chance you'll have of completely understanding the situation is if you review what you can about him and his case as a friend. You can filter his case through your Captain's eyes later, but Len definitely needs his friends right now. Not his Captain." The doctor ran a hand across his rough jaw, again pausing to consider what he could and couldn't say. "Can I call you Jim?"

"I'd prefer it, actually. Which means, I get to call you Corwin...?"

"Cory, for the love of _God_ call me Cory," he said, laughing pleasantly. "I hate 'Corwin.' Makes me sound like a little boy in short pants." His face sobered then, and a small sigh escaped his lips. "I can tell you some things, Jim. But Len is adamant about keeping confidentiality, as is his right as my patient. And in case you're wondering whose 'side' I'm on, I'm always on the patient's side. I'll do what's best for him, regardless of what 'Fleet wants. Regardless of what _you_ want," he said. Jim's lip quirked. He didn't like it, but he'd grudgingly accept it if Lucas' first priority was Bones.

"Cory..." Jim sighed heavily and hung his head. Although clinically he was a strapping 26-year-old in his prime, Jim felt twice that. The Academy never explained how much the Captain's job would age them. "All I want is to help him. I'll do my best to not let my own personal feelings cloud my judgment, but I can't fight blind here. I need to know the causes that put him here."

"If it were only as simple as cause and effect." Lucas made a face and stood in order to pace his office then and grabbed a small stress ball before sitting on the edge of his desk. "Why don't you enlighten me, Jim. Tell me as much as you know, and I'll confirm what I can."

Jim sighed. He didn't like going over any of it in his mind. They'd all made a mess of things in his opinion. They saw the freight train coming but no one did a damn thing to stop it. "He's always been a regular drinker," Jim murmured, deciding to start at the very beginning. "But so am I, kind of. When we first met I was hungover and he was on the tail end of a bender, so go figure. Then we had too much to do at the Academy. We were on different academic tracks so we didn't see much of each other except for the occasional weekend. But every once in a while we'd have a 'lost weekend' experience together." Despite the gravity, Jim smiled awkwardly at the memories. "But we were both professionals. We knew when to quit. Or so I thought."

Jim looked up sharply. "There are supposed to be successful cures. Psychological profiles are supposed to--" He bit off his words as his anger rose briefly to the surface. "As a friend, I would've tried to help him. As his Captain, I never would have had him serving on my ship as Chief Medical Officer."

Lucas nodded. His expression turned sad and he softly placed the tension ball back on his desk. "It's a difficult dilemma, and this situation is a strange, fuzzy line that offers no concrete solutions. I truly, truly don't envy you, Captain. There are pills and patches and hypos for drunkenness, you're right about that. But drinking can sometimes be an underlying symptom, and it can compound the other problems, exponentially." Lucas swallowed and worried his lower lip. "Jim, I'll say it straight: Len is an alcoholic. Even as far back as the academy he took medication to maintain his sobriety, but he's never dealt with the root causes of why he used alcohol as a means to an end. Psychologically he's still an alcoholic, and no medication can cure a problem that's psychologically based.

"The medication in his case is the equivalent of a child's bandage on an open, sucking chest wound."

"Shit." Jim sighed softly. He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Alcoholism and drug addictions weren't unheard of, but they were supposed to be rare, like typhoid or rubella. "It doesn't make sense. How could he...how did Starfleet miss this? Why didn't they put anything in his psych profile about it?" _Will he get better?_

"Probably a couple reasons why," Lucas said, staring at the stress ball. "Len's a doctor, and doctors are notoriously good at 'healing themselves' or hiding how they're feeling. They know what to say and how to say it, and they know what other professionals are looking for. Also, the higher the stress level, the higher the rate of abusive behavior, and doctors aren't immune to it. In fact, the abuse rate is usually higher among surgeons. Higher still among those working under constant, extremely stressful conditions."

"Like starships."

"Like starships," Lucas repeated quietly.

"But it's so rare, that's what gets me," Jim muttered. He shook his head and sat back. "It'd be more common for a non-terran parasite to leech onto his brain and force him to act like this."

"More acceptable, you mean?" Lucas didn't say it unkindly, but Jim felt the barb just the same. "It's not as rare as you think, Captain. Recent data indicates that three percent of the Federation population still suffers from various addictions, despite all our medical advances. And three percent of the Federation includes billions of beings. On your starship you probably have six to ten people suffering from one kind of addiction, or another. Most likely it's under control, but still..."

"Yeah." Jim made a face. He didn't want to consider other potential bombshells on his ship, not right now. "But that's not helping Bones at the moment, is it?"

Lucas half-smiled. " 'Bones'?"

"Sorry. It's a nickname I gave McCoy a few years back." Kirk waved it off and continued. "But I need more information, Doctor. How soon can Bon...McCoy be back on his feet?"

"I couldn't tell you if I wanted to," Lucas said, and he shrugged helplessly as Jim shot him an angry glare. "It's entirely up to McCoy at this point. I can tell you that he's probably hit bottom because there's not much lower he can go at this point, but I'm still encountering strong resistance; I feel like I'm blindfolded and playing 3D chess with a Grand-master. Think of it this way: Out of all the things he's done in his life while intoxicated, he's never entered his sickbay incapacitated. He's never tried treating a patient drunk. And he's never been under the influence while operating on a patient. He did all three of those things, Captain, during the _Enterprise'_s altercation with that Klingon ship. That means I have to help him come back from that abyss and I have to give him a reason to come back. Right now, he doesn't want to and he doesn't think he deserves to."

Jim's heart sank. And now he had to ask the question he didn't want to, despite the uncomfortable feeling that he knew the answer already. "Doctor," he said quietly. "Why is McCoy in isolation?"

Lucas looked out his office window and purposely turned away from Jim. "That's one of the things I can't tell you," he murmured. "Not directly. Just know, Jim, that Leonard was never a danger to anyone. Do you understand? He never harmed anyone _else_."

Jim swallowed and folded his hands. He understood the doctor perfectly, and his voice was rough when he finally spoke. "When?"

"Two times," Lucas muttered. "The first time was a day or so after he arrived. The second was a day or so before your visit."

"Why didn't you have sufficient personnel watching him, dammit?"

"Captain." Lucas turned back around and gave Jim the glare he'd seen often enough from McCoy after he'd questioned one of McCoy's decisions, and he didn't need to say another word; from his clipped tone, Lucas was just as furious about it. "Trust me, there was. And there still is. But you can't stop someone determined enough to try." Lucas sighed again and rubbed his face; the exhaustion showed in the hollows of his cheeks. "But each of those incidents and even the incident in the Klingon attack were desperate cries for help. If he didn't think we could help him, I guarantee you we'd be discussing him in the past tense right now."

They let the silence linger in the room, and Jim appreciated the time Lucas gave him to consider the big picture. At one time Lucas must have moved because he jumped when a glass of cool water pressed into his hand. "Thanks," he muttered gratefully. He downed half the water in one swallow, not realizing how thirsty he'd been until then. "So what now, Doctor Lucas? Where does this leave us?"

"Good question. It'll take months for Starfleet to sort all this out, from what I've seen in similar cases. And Len's case is additionally difficult for a number of reasons." Jim stared at Lucas a beat too long; the doctor wasn't telling him everything. "It could be years before anything is concluded at this point."

"Years?" Jim felt as if the wind were knocked out of him. They could be done with their exploratory mission before Bones finished half his court battles.

"On the other hand, the Starfleet justice system is infinitely more efficient than local jurisdictions. But there are levels in Len's case, Captain. It's not going to be pretty, on either side."

Jim stood slowly and shook his head. "There's more to this, Doctor, I know it. You're being vague and I want to know what you're not telling me."

Cory held Jim's glare but didn't bow to the intimidation. "There _is_ more to it, Captain. But I'm not at liberty to say. I'll simply say that if you employ the same skills for getting that information as you did in seeing McCoy, you'll get more than you bargained for."

Jim's expression hardened. "Is that a threat, Doctor?"

Cory actually looked surprised, and almost gave a startled laugh that confused Jim. "No way. Jim, think about what I just said, okay? Remember that Len needs his friends now. Know the man, and you'll uncover the problem. I can send you preliminary reports and findings because you're his captain, but I can't break the confidentiality agreement I have with him. But...look through the information I'm about to send you, especially between the lines. I want you to be an integral part of his treatment because he won't get better unless you're actively helping him. He needs to know the two of you are still friends, despite all this."

"Ouch." Jim winced, realizing his last words to McCoy, and then he bit back a sharp breath.

"No," Lucas said, knowing what Kirk was thinking. "He won't. Sure, you made him angry, but coming here was probably the best thing you could've done despite the unorthodox way you did it. You wouldn't have risked everything if he wasn't still a friend to you, and he knows it."

"He might think I'm too angry to come back, after what I said."

"Maybe. Maybe not. But I want to err on the side of optimism for now. I'll probably have a talk with him after the late dinner hour and after he's had enough rest. Depending on how he responds, I might take him out of strict isolation tomorrow. We'll see."

Jim felt the close of the conversation but he had so many more questions and not enough time to ask them. In some cases he wasn't even sure what to ask, or even if he'd get an answer if he did. Still, he'd agree with Cory on one thing: The Bones McCoy he knew wasn't the Bones McCoy he'd seen in isolation, and he'd have to start digging up or stirring up shit if he wanted his own answers.

"Understood," he said, slowly rising. "I'm gonna trust you with him, Cory. God knows when I'll have a chance to sneak back here."

"As soon as we get a breakthrough, I'll open the communication lines, Jim. I'm sure he'll act like an ass, but don't let the act fool you."

Jim shook Lucas' hand and smiled. "Oh, trust me. I know." His smile slowly faded. "Give me as much as legal allows you to, Cory. And if I dig anything up I'll send it right back. I want him healthy and whole faster than Starfleet does."

"Thanks, Jim. It'll make all our lives easier if you do that. And I promise you: the wheels of justice won't turn one click before Len's ready. I'll see to it, personally."

Jim believed him. And as he left Cory Lucas' office and headed for an official teleport bay, he was determined more than ever to find the missing bits of information stemming from all those hints.


End file.
